


stay young (go dancing)

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, Making Out, Waiter Yuuri, au where yuuri never starts ice skating, kind of??, yuri makes an appearance just to establish that even in an au he has a bad attitude, yuuri wears makeup, yuuri would absolutely wear makeup if given the chance and he is given the chance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Do you do this with every pretty boy that serves you champagne?” Yuuri asks, finally a touch of humor in his tone.“I’ll admit, I’m the flirty type,” Viktor says, “but I haven’t asked to kiss any.”Oh, fuck it. Yuuri throws caution to the wind and says, “You won’t have to.”  aka: the one where yu-topia onsen caters a celebration party for viktor nikiforov's fifth world championship win, and viktor takes interest in the super hot waiter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for those that dont know, hors d'oeuvre is pronounced 'or-DERV' !

They cater.

It’s a little-known fact about the Hasetsu onsen. They don’t advertise it. Catering takes a lot of time and work, and often they have to close up the entire onsen few days just to cater for a night or two. Somehow, the only people that ask if they cater—asking directly is the only way anyone finds out about it—are all planning enormous events. It’d be a lot more convenient if they only catered smaller things, like graduation parties and the like. But no, things have to be as complicated as possible, and due to the nature of the Katsuki family, they can’t deny a request for food.

They don’t cater much, but when they do, they have a system that’s nearly flawless in execution: Hiroko and Mari prepare the food, Toshiya dishes out servings as requested by guests, and Yuuri wanders through the crowd, balancing a tray with hors d’oeuvres like it’s an extension of his arm. He’s always the one on the floor. It’s because he’s the one with the fancy footwork and balance that rivals that of a tightrope walker. His face, his mother and sister added, isn’t too bad either. His features are a bit too feminine to be considered ‘handsome,’ too masculine to be considered ‘beautiful,’ so they say he’s ‘some kind of pretty-boy.’

(It doesn’t matter to him. He’s never really cared much about the concept of gender, anyway, so the way anyone describes him isn’t important to him—mostly.)

The majority of the parties have alcohol, and due to this, Yuuri is quite capable dealing with the intoxicated. And yet, he’s at a loss for what to do now. He’s been in situations similar to the one he’s in, but not _like this_ —drunks flirting with him, fine, but the (indescribably handsome) star of the party?

Yikes.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is in Minako’s studio stretching when Mari bursts in, grinning wildly. He looks up, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He doesn’t get the chance to ask the question before Mari answers it.

“We’re catering Viktor Nikiforov’s celebration party!” she exclaims, hands on her cheeks.

This means little to Yuuri. He tilts his head to the side, thinking. He’s heard the name before, and has seen it online, but he doesn’t remember exactly where.

Mari reads this on his face, and sighs. “Okay, so, to be fair, I didn’t really know anything about him either, but I looked him up! He’s the champion of so many ice skating competitions I could hardly count them all! Including the World Championship! Five of them! That’s what they’re celebrating, his fifth win!”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. He raises his leg to rest it on the barre and reaches to touch his toes. “Yuko’s mentioned him. I think she has a poster of him, maybe. So, uh, why are you so excited?”

“He’s _so_ attractive, Yuuri, you wouldn’t _believe._ ” Mari fans herself with her hand.

Yuuri smiles, though it’s mostly hidden as his forehead touched his knee. “You know the stars of parties never pay attention to caterers, right? We’re background characters.”

“Oh, hush. Let me have some fun.” She sighs, waving a hand at him. “Well, Mom just told me to tell you that we have to start prepping tomorrow, because the party’s in like, two days. We’re kind of pressed for time, so we have a lot of work to do.”

Yuuri rises to face her, but Mari has already left, leaving the door ajar behind her. He shrugs, lifts his other leg, and tries to remember all Yuko has told him about Viktor Nikiforov.

 

* * *

 

When he arrives home that evening, his family is already busy in the kitchen, preparing the things that need to chill or freeze. There’s not much by way of food that he can help with today, though, so his mother sends him to gather all the supplies they’ll need from the storage room. He spends a good hour rooting through all the boxes to gather enough for an event this large, and when he decides he’s finished, his black sweater is covered in dust and he has multiple cardboard cuts on his hands. But hey, now that he’s collected all the catering supplies he thinks that they’ve ever had, they can tuck them all into the same box when they’re done with this event so they never have to go through that again.

The scent of food wakes Yuuri up early the next morning, but he knows better than to wander down expecting breakfast. He tosses on some old sweats he doesn’t mind stains on and heads to the kitchen. His mother and sister are already working, and when he enters, his mother immediately assigns him a list of things to do. By the time he’s finished it, it’s well past noon, and his mother has a grocery list that she pushes into his hand and waves him away to get.

Yuuri is in line at checkout when he hears two girls chatting excitedly:

“You heard about Viktor Nikiforov’s celebration party, right?”

“Oh my god, _yes!_ I wish I could go!”

“Only famous people and reporters are gonna get to be there. So unless you become one of those in a day, you’re SOL, hon.”

For a moment, Yuuri thinks about telling them that he’s buying food that will be served at the party they’re talking about. Then it’s his turn, and the cashier greets him, and he keeps it to himself, feeling more nervous than he ever has about their catering.

His nerves don’t affect his cooking. He makes sure of that. They all have enough to worry about without the addition of his own anxiety.

Still, he finds himself in Minako’s studio when he should definitely be sleeping, lost in music and movement.

 

* * *

 

When the day of the event arrives, they pack everything up and get on a train to a city Yuuri has only seen in pictures. He’s excited, sure, but it isn’t like he’ll have time to sightsee. On top of that, he’s _already_ stressing about the event, so the added anxiety of being in a new place so far from home isn’t really a good thing right now.

The location is the ballroom of a luxurious hotel downtown. The Katsuki family is among the first of the staff to arrive. The coordinator gives them full access to the kitchen, which astounds them all. The appliances are so much more modern and professional than home’s, but it delights Yuuri’s family; they move about the kitchen in wonder, almost forgetting to set up. Yuuri takes a moment to admire the sheen of stainless steel, then shakes himself off and returns to the ballroom. He’s standing to the side of the entryway, taking in the enormous room, when a woman that he remembers being with the coordinator approaches him.

“You’re the waiter, correct? With Yu-topia Catering?” she asks, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Um, yes. I’m Katsuki Yuuri,” he says, shifting in place under her scrutiny.

She holds up her clipboard to him. “These are your measurements, correct?”

Yuuri nods at the numbers presented to him, briefly wondering how she knew his measurements in the first place. She nods back, jotting something down before making a beckoning gesture. Someone else approaches, handing Yuuri a parcel before resuming whatever they were doing.

“That will be your uniform,” the woman says. “You likely brought one of your own, but it’s important that the staff stick to a theme tonight. I do hope you understand.”

The wrapping is opaque, so he can’t tell anything by just the parcel, but he nods again in agreement. “Yeah, um, yes. It’s fine. Let me know if there’s anything else you need me to do.”

She gives him a once-over over the rim of her glasses when her eyes rest on his hair. “Try slicking back your hair a bit, or at least tidying it. If you can’t, it won’t be a problem. Someone will bring you an earpiece for communication before the event begins.” With that, she turns on her heel and moves on.

Yuuri looks around, then asks someone carrying a stack of chairs where he can change. They put down their load, expression a little relieved, and point him to the restrooms. They also direct him to what will be serving as the staff room, and Yuuri thanks them profusely as he follows where they’d pointed.

The restroom has an a large mirror on the back wall, across from the one over the sinks so the two reflect each other endlessly. The stalls are large, so Yuuri doesn’t have too much trouble swapping out his clothes for what’s in the parcel. When he’s finished dressing, he steps out, clothes over one arm, and stares at himself in the full mirror.

His slacks and dress shirt are both black (he’s glad his formal shoes are black, too). The suit jacket is white satin, peak lapels and jetted pockets hemmed with black. His tie, narrow and white, hangs precisely at his belt line. Everything fits exactly the way it should, and though it’s a bit tighter than Yuuri would normally assume a formal suit to be, it’s in all the most flattering places. He’s never had anything fitted before, except for ballet costumes. It’s comfortable; he finds himself a touch more at ease knowing he won’t be out of place among the staff. He does wonder if the white jacket was the best idea for a waiter, but supposes that he _does_ have impeccable balance, so it shouldn’t be an issue. For others, maybe, but he won’t undersell himself on one of the main things he prides himself on.

(His sister teases that she hates him for it sometimes, because she stumbles on two-inch heels while he can walk in stilettos like nobody’s business.)

Yuuri pauses to wet his fingers and run his hands through his bangs, pushing them back in an attempt to match the sleekness of his new uniform, then wanders back to the ballroom after placing his other clothes with the other supplies they’d brought. He feels more comfortable, now that he matches the white-and-black theme he now realizes all the staff wears. They recognize him as part of the staff now, too, so he’s on the receiving end of more passing smiles than before. His family told him when he’d put his clothes away that they had nothing for him to do, so Yuuri relaxes against a wall, watching everyone set up.

Ten or twenty minutes later, a woman that looks like an actress nears him, holding out a black cord. “You’re Yuuri, right?” she asks, and when he nods, she smiles scarlet lips. “I thought so. Here’s your earpiece.” She pauses. Her gaze is like the first woman’s, but less critical, more analytical. “You know,” she muses, “your look would be perfectly complete with some eyeshadow to bring out the color in your eyes, or eyeliner to elongate the shape.” She hums.

Before Yuuri thinks, he blurts, “There’s a lot of time before the event, could you do that?”

She looks surprised, but then grins, much wider than she’d smiled before. “Oh, absolutely! I’m a professional makeup artist, you know, and I simply _adore_ new models.” She has a twinkle in her eye that reminds Yuuri of Minako when she takes his arm and pulls him to the staff room. She introduces herself as Sayo, pushing his shoulders to sit him down on a desk chair. She retrieves a large box and opens it, pulling out drawers to select her utensils. Once satisfied with her selections, Sayo tells him to close his eyes and promptly gets to work. He’s glad he wore his contacts instead of his glasses.

It isn’t as if Yuuri’s never worn makeup before. He loves it, especially for ballet recitals, or even when he just wants to look a little nice. But no one has actually applied makeup for him before. So when Sayo sits back to admire her work and pushes him toward a mirror, he’s eager to see the result.

 _Wow._ His eyeshadow is smokey, blended and winged in a way that flows perfectly with his eyeliner, a sharp cat’s eye. Just as Sayo had said, it elongates his eyes flawlessly. His features are emphasized with natural-looking highlighting and bronzing, cheeks a pretty coral that matches glossy lips. Sayo had even put a small amount of product in his hair to push it back in a way that makes it seem almost like it grows like that. She’s a professional, and it shows. Yuuri feels like _he_ might get as much attention as the star of the party with this look.

He says this, and thanks her more profusely than he had the other staff member. She laughs it off, telling him it was good practice. Then someone else enters the staff room, calling Sayo’s name and begging for her to redo their eyeliner, they rubbed their eyes and they don’t know what to do, and Yuuri takes this moment to thank Sayo again and take his leave.

That endeavor successfully killed a good chunk of time he had before the event officially begins, and the ballroom seems almost totally ready now, all the tables set and labelled. He glances at his watch: ten minutes left. He hears someone say that guests are already waiting near the ballroom doors, politely allowing the staff to finish preparations completely before entering. Yuuri finds that the majority of his anxiety has melted away, now that he generally knows his way around and fits in with the way the watier of an event this big and formal should look. In fact, he thinks, he’s actually _excited._ It’s a good feeling.

A staff member—the one with the chairs—waves to him and tells him that the caterers want to see him. Yuuri gives his thanks as he passes them, headed toward the kitchen. His mother and Mari see him, fawn over his appearance, then go back to being all business, pointing to the silver tray of thin champagne glasses for him to take out first. He’d expected an hors d’oeuvre, but carries the tray to the ballroom without questioning their judgement. He’s the server, they’re the cooks. They know what they’re doing.

The band has finished tuning their instruments and have begun to play a relaxing classical piece. The celebration is officially underway, as visible by the mingling guests and the coordinator’s voice reminding staff of tasks in his earpiece. She asks if Yuuri has brought out anything yet, and he tells her of the champagne. She seems pleased with that, which gives Yuuri even more trust in his family.

Half an hour in, the ballroom has a crowd of guests. Yuuri has made a few trips back to the kitchen, but is sent out with more champagne each time. He’s politely pointing out to a man that the glass he’s about to take would be his third in the twenty minutes he’s been here when the coordinator’s voice comes through his earpiece.

“Viktor Nikiforov has arrived in the ballroom. Katsuki, please wait seven minutes, then offer him champagne.”

“Will do,” he says, having convinced the man to wait until after the hors d’oeuvres. He checks his watch, mentally noting exactly when he should approach Viktor, then resumes his Waiter Smiles and Waiter Offerings.

It’s been four minutes when the silver hair of Viktor Nikiforov comes into view, and five when Viktor Nikiforov approaches _him._ There’s a gleam in his eyes that sends an involuntary shiver up Yuuri’s spine.

He takes a glass of champagne with long, delicate fingers, and his sip is larger than Yuuri expected it would be. With a pleased little smile, Viktor turns to meet Yuuri’s eyes once again, and he manages not to shudder this time.

“I had no idea they hired anybody quite like you,” he states, mimicking the coordinator’s assistant’s once-over but much, _much_ more slowly, as if drinking him in like the champagne in his hand. He flashes a dazzling smile and Yuuri thinks he sees stars. “I’d love to stay and talk, but I should return to the fray. I’ll certainly see you around.” He winks—actually fucking _winks,_ damn him—and disappears back into the crowd.

Yuuri feels like he’s been staring at too-bright lights. He blinks, barely able to smile as a guest takes a glass from his tray. He’d seen pictures of Viktor when he looked him up, had seen that he was definitely handsome, but that was just unfair. The shine of his hair and his melodic voice and his clear, clear blue eyes—everything about him is downright celestial. Yuuri is so, _so_ grateful to the theme and Sayo now; if he’d been in his original outfit and looked like he had when they arrived, he doubts he could bear standing in the same room as Viktor, even an enormous one like this.

Yuuri’s next few trays are hors d’oeuvres, bite-sized slices of bread topped with caviar. Caviar is considered best prepared in Russia, apparently, so it’s not a surprise that it’s what they’re serving as an appetizer for a Russian’s celebration party.

“Yuuri? You did find Viktor after seven minutes, correct?” asks the coordinator’s assistant a while later.

“He found me, actually,” Yuuri says, still awed by the experience. “After five minutes.”

“Viktor always has gravitated toward pretty things,” a voice that sounds like Sayo’s notes, with what sounds like a smile in her tone.

A few different laughs are heard through the headset, and Yuuri even sees another waiter snicker a few feet away. Yuuri flushes, wanting to curl up and hide his face in his hands, but he keeps smiling, smiling, smiling, keeps serving, serving, serving. His anxiety is beginning to flow back. Attention is fine when it’s from the audience of a recital, but from the most successful man in what seems to be ice skating history? That’s different, and it’s too much.

“My tray is empty,” he says into the headset, “so I’m going to take a really quick break. Uh, I’ll be back in like, five minutes, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response, knowing the event has enough staff that five minutes won’t make much of a difference without him. He hurries out of the ballroom, rushing toward where he remembers the restroom being. He just needs—he needs air, he needs a place to breathe in something that isn’t perfume and cologne and other people’s breath.

On his way there, he bumps into a shorter boy, blond and scowling. “What’s _your_ problem?” he snaps, glaring up at Yuuri. When the waiter doesn’t answer, he scoffs. “Just a staffer that can’t handle being around famous people. Why even take the job?” He rolls his eyes and storms away, toward the ballroom. Yuuri turns to watch him go, lips pursed. He doesn’t feel quite as bad about himself now, more curious about the boy with the bad attitude and why he was invited.

He brushes it off, but the distraction helps his stress, so he stays in the hallway rather than hiding in the bathroom. He leans against the wall, holding clasped hands against his chest as he takes deep, slow breaths. He’s fine. He’s fine. He can do this. Yuuri closes his eyes and mentally goes over the choreography of the most recent routine Minako helped him with. It’s no time alone in the studio, but it’s enough to get him back to the kitchen, picking up a new hors d’oeuvre tray—marinated herring on black bread this time—and returns to the ballroom. He informs the coordinator that he’s back, and assures her that he’s fine, he just needed some air.

An hour and a half into the party, everyone has taken seats at the large round tables, and Yuuri and the other waitstaff weave through them, taking orders. Two of the three options for the entrees are his family’s recipes, which fills Yuuri with pride. Soon enough, they’re serving the ordered dishes (Yuuri, by some miracle, doesn’t get a single one mixed up). Everyone seems incredibly satisfied with all of the food, especially his family’s katsudon. He hears that the katsudon is what Viktor ordered, and—

“ _Vkusno!_ ” Viktor exclaims, voice carried by the tall ceiling of the ballroom.

“That’s ‘delicious’ in Russian,” a waitress tells the small group of staff that hovers near the service doors.

Yuuri grins. “That’s my family’s special recipe,” he says, overcome with pride for his family. The staff members _‘ooo,’_ telling him to send their congratulations to the other Katsukis. Then Yuuri notes a table with mostly empty water glasses and brings a cold pitcher over to offer more.

The tables are cleared, some dessert is served, then that’s cleared, too. Yuuri is wandering among the tables with a tray of glasses of chilled dessert wine in hand, offering it to the guests with his best Polite Waiter Smile of the night. He doesn’t realize it until the words leave his mouth that the table he’s moved to now is the head table. The table where Viktor sits.

“Would any of you care for some dessert wine?” Yuuri asks, the moment he locks eyes with Viktor. He feels a blush creeping its way to his cheeks, but hopefully the powdered blush Sayo applied helps hide it.

“I’d love some,” Viktor says immediately, giving one of those mega-watt grins.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and thanks the heavens for his balance as he moves with what would be unsteady legs to where Viktor is seated. Unfortunately, where his legs don’t shake, his hands do; when he places the glass down, the stem hits the edge of the charger plate, and a bit splashes onto his fingers.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Nothing spilled on the table, though, so it’s better than it could have been, heh.” He moves to wipe his hand on the small apron around his waist.

Viktor’s hand shoots out and grasps Yuuri’s wrist, and he smiles, the expression different than the one Viktor seems to have been wearing all night (not that Yuuri had looked whenever the ice skater was in his line of sight, or anything like that, that would be silly). “We wouldn’t want any of it to go to waste, would we?” Viktor’s voice is low as he draws Yuuri’s hand to his mouth and licks a stripe up the back of his palm to the tip of his middle finger. Yuuri’s face feels like it’s going to burst, and that gleam in Viktor’s eye is back and it is _not helping._ Viktor can definitely feel Yuuri trembling.

Luckily, it’s at this moment that he realizes he’d given Viktor the last glass on his tray. “I-I need to go get more wine,” he stutters, and when he pulls away, he’s pretty sure Viktor makes it a point to draw his fingers along Yuuri’s palm. Yuuri all but runs to the kitchen, clutching his tray to his chest and trying not to scream because _holy shit holy shit holy fucking shit Viktor licked his fucking hand, who fucking does that, he licked! His! Hand!_

It’s fine, he tells himself. Viktor is just… drunk. Yeah. Viktor is drunk. He’d do that to anyone. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s had too much to drink. That’s all there is to it. Why can’t he convince himself that’s all there is to it?

The coordinator’s assistant sees him, and her brow furrows. “Is everything okay?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Oh, y-yeah. Everything’s, um, it’s fine!” he replies, faking what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

She doesn’t look convinced. “Well, the meal went better than expected, so you can feel free to take half an hour or so to yourself.”

“Thank you so much,” he says in one heavy sigh. This time his smile is grateful, and it’s real. She nods at him, casting him a small smile of her own before returning to whatever she’d been doing.

Yuuri sets his tray down on top of some others that need to be washed, then heads to the staff room. He unties his apron and tosses it onto the pile that’s accumulating of towels and aprons, but exits again to spend his newly-allotted free time in the hallway. He walks farther down it to be out of the way, then rests his weight against the wall. All he can think about is Viktor, Viktor’s eyes and Viktor’s hands and Viktor’s _tongue,_ and he really, really wishes he could escape to Minako’s studio and dance until his feet bleed and he forgets about Viktor completely.

The universe isn’t on his side today.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of shoes very, very close in front of his. Yuuri looks up, about to apologize for being in someone’s way, but finds his face inches from Viktor’s. He shrinks back, almost hitting his head against the wall with the movement. He squeaks out something that might have been Viktor’s name, but even he can’t really say. Viktor finds this incredibly amusing, for some reason, and he laughs.

Yuuri finds his voice enough to mumble, “Um, M-Mister Nikiforov, I, uh, think you’re probably being missed in the ballroom—”

Viktor touches a finger to Yuuri’s lips, promptly silencing him ( _he’s drunk,_ Yuuri tries to remind himself). “Everyone has congratulated me already,” he says. “There’s really no other reason for anyone to talk to me tonight.”

“Except to, you know, have a conversation with the star of the party,” Yuuri says against Viktor’s finger.

Viktor waves his other hand dismissively. “They’ll find something to do.” The way he says it makes it clear that there won’t be any talking him out of it, so Yuuri stays quiet. Viktor’s hand twists so his fingers cup Yuuri’s chin, thumb gliding across the gloss on his lower lip. His eyes follow the movement of his thumb, and when they flick up to meet Yuuri’s again, his pupils are larger than they should be in the well-lit hall.

“Um, Mister Nikiforov?” Yuuri breaks the silence that stretches between them, blinking up at the skater. “You really shouldn’t—”

“Viktor,” he interrupts. “Just Viktor, Yuuri.”

Yuuri decides not to question how Viktor learned his name. “Then, Viktor, um, you’ve probably had a few more drinks than you, um, than you maybe should have? You’re, uh, I don’t think you’re thinking straight.”

“I’ve had three small glasses of wine,” Viktor says, “but I’ll agree that I’m _definitely_ not thinking straight.” His grin this time isn’t bright. It’s dark, suggestive.

Yuuri’s trembling again.

Viktor is close.

“You don’t know me.” Yuuri’s voice is little more than a whisper.

“Do I need to?” Viktor’s isn’t any louder. “You’re stunning. Divine. _Nebozhitel._ ”

“Do you do this with every pretty boy that serves you champagne?” Yuuri asks, finally a touch of humor in his tone.

“I’ll admit, I’m the flirty type,” Viktor says, “but I haven’t asked to kiss any.”

 _Oh, fuck it._ Yuuri throws caution to the wind and says, “You won’t have to.” And he kisses Viktor Nikiforov. _He,_ Yuuri Katsuki, actually _kisses_ Viktor Nikiforov. On the lips.

And god damn him if it isn’t anything short of spectacular.

Viktor’s hands are on Yuuri’s hips and Yuuri’s hands are on Viktor’s chest when they part. Viktor’s cheeks are just slightly dusted with pink, whereas Yuuri’s are no doubt long past rose red. They gaze at each other for a moment, Yuuri’s heartbeat pounding in his ears, and then they kiss again.

 _And_ _again._

 _And_ _again._

Yuuri’s lip gloss is a little sticky, but Viktor doesn’t seem to mind. It tastes slightly of vanilla, slightly of citrus, and Viktor _most definitely_ doesn’t mind that. He darts his tongue across Yuuri’s lower lip, nipping it gently. It drives Yuuri wild. He circles his arms around Viktor’s neck, pulling himself closer. Viktor hums, smiling against his lips, bringing up a hand to caress the side of Yuuri’s neck, stroking the soft skin beneath his jaw with his thumb. When they next part, their lips still brush as they pant for breath.

Yuuri hears voices, and he remembers where they are. But, gods help him, he doesn’t want this to end. Instead, he draws back, trying to think of somewhere else to go. Viktor understands, and grabs the lapel of his jacket to drag him toward the end of the hall, where a door leads out into a small courtyard. He spins them until the small of Yuuri’s back is against a metal table. Yuuri hops up backward so he’s seated on the edge of it, wrapping a leg around Viktor’s, pressing his heel into the back of Viktor’s thigh to urge him closer. This kiss is harsher, grabbing hands and biting teeth. His tongue is in Viktor’s mouth and Viktor is loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. His fingertips brush his collarbone as he kisses from Yuuri’s lips to his jaw to his neck. Yuuri’s hands fist in Viktor’s hair and the back of his suit coat, pulling himself closer to press against Viktor fully. He tips his head, baring the skin, and he barely catches the small whine that threatens to escape him.

Noticing this movement, Viktor grins against his throat, giving the tender skin a tiny bite. “So eager, but still so good for me, hm?” he murmurs, and Yuuri can’t stop his moan this time.

“ _Shit,_ Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, eyes flashing open (he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them) when the skater’s lips find his pulse point and _suck_. Viktor’s hands move to Yuuri’s thighs, pulling him forward so he can push him backward and bow over him. Unfortunately, Yuuri’s head bumps the edge of the table, and he winces, frowning.

Viktor curses. “I’m sorry, I—” He stops. His eyes widen, brighten. “Wait a minute. I have a room.” He grins down at Yuuri. “A really nice one.”

And then Yuuri is back in touch with reality. He’s making out with Viktor Nikiforov. Astoundingly famous ice skater Viktor Nikiforov. Astoundingly beautiful Viktor Nikiforov. Astoundingly important Viktor Nikiforov.

He doesn’t have the right to be doing this. He’s nobody. He’s a ballet dancer from a small town, living with his family and helping run the family business. He’s ordinary, he’s boring, he’s _nothing_ to Viktor. He should hardly be anything but a momentary speck on Viktor’s radar.

Viktor can see the unease on Yuuri’s face, and his own twists with concern. He’s still beautiful. “Are you okay? What’s wrong, Yuuri? Did I do something?”

Yuuri shakes his head. He has to look away. Tears sting his eyes, though he tries to blink them away. “N-no. I just… I don’t… I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Concern shifts to hurt. “Yuuri, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be doing this with you! You’re so… You’re so famous, and so important, and I’m just _not!_ I’m a caterer, but hardly ever! I don’t… I don’t even deserve to step on your shadow. I’m sorry.”

Viktor kisses the tears caught in his eyelashes. “No, no, Yuuri, don’t think like that,” he says softly, “you don’t need to think like that. Importance and fame, that doesn’t matter. Not at all, okay, Yuuri? You’re magnificent. Shh, let’s stop crying, okay? You’ll smudge your makeup.”

Yuuri sniffles as Viktor kisses away the last of his tears. After a moment, he turns his head to meet Viktor’s gaze again. “I want to go to your room,” he says, voice a little shaky but tone firm. Viktor smiles gently, standing upright and taking Yuuri’s hand to help him to his feet. He tugs Yuuri along with him, guiding him by the hand to the elevators. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand tightly while they wait. When the elevator doors slide open, it’s Yuuri that yanks Viktor into the elevator. As soon as Viktor touches his floor number, he presses and holds the _Door Close_ button impatiently. The moment they close, the men are kissing again. Yuuri’s kisses are desperate, longing; his hands touch every part of Viktor he can reach as if attempting to convince himself that Viktor is real, this is happening.

The elevator slows to a stop with a _ping!_ Yuuri figures it’s Viktor’s floor and doesn’t pull away. A voice stops the moment a robotic voice announces the floor: 18. Viktor’s is 23. Yuuri is quick to leap to the other side of the elevator, spine straight as a ruler, arms flat at his sides. The man getting on just shakes his head and resumes speaking into his phone, standing between the two and nodding at the lit-up _23_ button. Yuuri is very close to dropping to the ground and letting himself wither away there on the elevator tile, because they are going to have to exit the elevator with this random guest that saw them kissing, and the random guest will probably see them both go into Viktor’s room. When Yuuri glances over at Viktor behind the guest’s shoulders, Viktor looks like he’s barely holding back guffaws.

Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s been making out with this guy.

“Have you no shame?” he hisses, and Viktor can’t stifle an unattractive snort. The guest doesn’t seem to react.

After nothing short of an eternity, the elevator doors open to the 23rd floor. The guest walks off first. Viktor grabs Yuuri’s hand as soon as he can reach it, all but dragging him down the hallway. The elevator guest slips Yuuri’s mind completely when Viktor opens a door with a keycard, spins on his heel, and draws Yuuri into a kiss before the door is even closed all the way.

He doesn’t let it last long, though. He moves away with a, “Wait, wait,” kicking off his shoes with his toes and peeling off his coat. Oh, and takes out that earpiece. That could lead to some awkward conversations. He takes in the room: on the large side, with a kitchen suite, two couches in front of a flatscreen, and a tiny hall that likely leads to a bathroom and bedroom. Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand again to lead him to where the bedroom has to be, stating simply, “I’m not going to let Viktor Nikiforov fuck me against the first wall he sees. You have a nice mattress and we’re going to use it.”

“‘Let’ me fuck you,” Viktor repeats, laughter in his voice. “You’ve gained some confidence.”

He has. Even over the course of the night, he has. After his vulnerable moment in the courtyard, he’d stopped to think, _What am I afraid of?_ Viktor had assured him between kisses that he wants Yuuri, and at that point, the only thing holding him back had been himself. It’s exactly like he gets before big recitals, so afraid of messing up that he can’t focus on anything else. Once he pushes away that thought, positive of his practice and skill, his performance is flawless. He knows what to do, and he’s _good_ at it.

Instead of responding to the latter words, Yuuri says, “Is that a request?” He smirks at Viktor over his shoulder.

And suddenly he’s on the bed, face against the soft blankets while Viktor’s lips move against the back of his neck. Viktor’s hands reach beneath him to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, moving his own body up so he can pull the garment off. He plants kisses and nips across the span of Yuuri’s shoulderblades, hands roaming over his now bare skin. When he urges Yuuri to flip so they can face each other, Viktor pauses, taking in the sight beneath him.

Yuuri is panting softly, flushed down his chest. His frame is delicate, lithe; his muscles are toned and slim beneath his skin. The lines of his body are more soft than they are lean, especially around his waist and thighs. A glance up to Yuuri’s face reveals an expression of embarrassment, but eyes that are pure lust. Viktor smiles, leaning up to kiss Yuuri’s lips again. Yuuri hums, fingers fumbling with Viktor’s shirt. Viktor helps without breaking the kiss, tossing his shirt in the general direction he’d thrown with Yuuri’s. His hands trail down Yuuri’s abdomen, one stopping to toy with his nipple while the other dips beneath his waistband, flicking the button undone. Yuuri gasps, nails digging into the skin of Viktor’s shoulders.

As Viktor lowers the zipper to tug off Yuuri’s slacks, running his hands down his thighs, he mentions, “You feel... limber. Do you play sports?”

Yuuri blinks, processing the words. “I, uh. Yeah. I dance. Ballet.” Normally, this confession is embarrassing, for a man his age to be a ballet dancer, but he’s saying this to a pro figure skater, so it can’t be too bad, right?

Right. Viktor ‘ _ooo_ ’s, kissing Yuuri’s hip bone. “Ballet? That’s incredible! That’s a very taxing practice, isn’t it?” He licks a line from Yuuri’s navel to his nipple, brushing his teeth across it _just so._

Yuuri arches into the touch, gasping for air. “Y-yeah, it can be. I’ve—I’ve been doing it since I was really young.” His hands tangle in Viktor’s hair.

“Have you ever considered figure skating?” Viktor asks, glancing up at him through his lashes. “Something tells me you’d be _very_ good at it.”

Yuuri takes Viktor’s face in his hands and yanks him up to kiss him. “You can tell me all about skating later,” he breathes. “Right now, I just need you to fuck me.”

Every part of Viktor goes hot, and yet, he shivers. He’s quick to rid himself of his slacks, hand flailing toward the nightstand. He curses when what he’s looking for isn’t there, twisting to look for his bag of toiletries. It’s in the bathroom. Which is not in the bed. Or in the bedroom. Therefore, too far away. He leaps off the bed, holding up a finger in a _one moment_ gesture as he scrambles to get what he needs. When he returns, Yuuri somehow looks even _hotter_ than he had seconds ago. His arms are over his head, which is tilted to the side, baring pale skin for Viktor as he shifts his hips in impatience.

Viktor dives back to the bed, his hands mussing Yuuri’s perfect hair and kissing him like his life depends on it. Somehow, he manages to slip off Yuuri’s tie, using it to knot his wrists together above his head. Yuuri gasps, apparently not having realized Viktor’s intentions until the outcome. Blue eyes are dark when Yuuri meets his gaze.

Viktor sits up, retrieving what he’d gotten from the bathroom. He pours a bit of lube on his fingers and makes eye contact again. “Have you done this before?” he asks, circling a finger around his hole.

Yuuri bites his lip, swollen from kisses, and tries not to move. “By myself,” he admits. “Never… never with anyone else.”

The image of Yuuri, lewd and drooling with three fingers up his ass flashes in Viktor’s mind, and he almost comes right there. Miraculously, he holds back, instead slipping in his middle finger slowly as he says, “Tell me if I should stop, okay?”

Yuuri nods, panting open-mouthed as Viktor preps him, adding a second finger, then a third. His nails leave little crescent circles on the meat of his palms when he clenches his fists. Once the harsh sting of pain has faded to pleasure, his eyelashes flutter as he gazes at Viktor with pupils blown wide with lust, and he whines, “God, Viktor, _p-please,_ Viktor, _please_ fuck me.”

How the hell could _anyone_ say no to that?

With a shaky breath, Viktor rolls on a condom and squirts some lube into his hand, coating his dick before lining it up with Yuuri’s hole. He presses in slowly, watching Yuuri’s face all the while for any sign of hesitance or pain. He sees neither, only pleasure, relief. Yuuri pulls his hands down to muffle his moan with his forearm, but Viktor grabs Yuuri’s wrists and plants them above his head again. He leans down to murmur directly in Yuuri’s ear, “Don’t hide your beautiful voice. I want to hear every sound you make. Every sigh, every moan, every whimper, I want to hear it.”

Yuuri gasps, and lets out the breath as a whine when Viktor draws his hips back and then pounds forward. He wraps his legs around Viktor’s waist, catching at the ankles, and the change in angle is cause enough for both of them to moan. Yuuri’s legs tighten around Viktor’s hips, each breath barely more than a semblance of his name, until his eyes meet Viktor’s and he’s groaning, “God, Viktor, fuck me, fuck me harder, please, Viktor, _please!_ ”

Any and all self control Viktor might have had is out the window with that. His mouth meets Yuuri’s in a heart-stopping kiss, rough, all teeth and tongue, hips thrusting deep and fast. “You’re wonderful,” he murmurs between kisses on his lips and bites on his neck. “So, so beautiful. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, you feel so good, so tight for me, yes, _fuck,_ Yuuri!”

Somehow, Yuuri flips them over so Viktor’s on his back, staring up at Yuuri. The dancer’s face is flushed red, his lips puffy but still glimmering from his lip gloss. His smokey eyes, so desperate and wanting as they gaze into Viktor’s, is almost enough to make Viktor lose himself then and there. Yuuri’s bound hands are flat against his chest and then, oh, gods, then he’s _moving,_ bouncing on Viktor’s dick, head thrown back and chest heaving. His throat and collarbones are speckled with purple and red marks, flawlessly styled hair falling over his forehead, skin glistening with sweat, and he looks down and smiles and—

“Yuuri, I’m—” Viktor pants, hands tightening their hold on Yuuri’s waist. Yuuri’s smile shifts to a smirk and Viktor is _gone._

Yuuri isn’t far behind, watching the angel that is Viktor coming undone beneath him. He slams his hips down once, twice, three more times before he comes, splattering his chest and Viktor’s.

Yuuri lifts his hips to pull off of Viktor’s dick, then collapses on top of the skater, breaths coming in heaves as his lungs take in the oxygen they couldn’t get moments ago.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Viktor says, “but I’ve been with a lot of people, and you are, by far, the best.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says, yawning. Then he freezes. “The party. My family.”

Viktor unties Yuuri’s wrists and uses the tie to wipe them both off, tossing it to the side of the room and pulling Yuuri close. He shifts them so that they can slide under the soft blankets. “Don’t worry, I texted Sayo to tell your family that you’d get home on your own.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks, furrowing his brow and making to sit up.

Viktor wraps his arms around Yuuri to drag him back down, kissing between his eyebrows to smooth his expression. “Yes. You’ll be home in a few days or so. I promise.”

“A few days?”

“I’d take you with me everywhere if I could.”

Yuuri laughs softly. “I guess they’ll be fine.”

“Of course they will be.” Viktor kisses Yuuri again, then, and the conversation is forgotten.

Until Yuuri wonders aloud, “Maybe I should take up ice skating.” And Viktor beams.

 

* * *

 

When Viktor wakes in the morning, he has 41 unread texts, and his Instagram is blowing up with people tagging him in comments on an image. When he checks, it's a picture of he and Yuuri smiling, kissing, pulling the hotel room door closed. 

He yawns, locking his phone and curling up against Yuuri, kissing the top of his head. He'll deal with it later.

**Author's Note:**

> sayo is actually the name of the director of the anime. fun fact.


End file.
